


Pride

by kellsbells



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 05:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8519650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellsbells/pseuds/kellsbells
Summary: I have thought long and hard before posting this. I wrote it on the day I woke up to hear about the Pulse shootings, and decided not to post it at the time, for various reasons. But when I woke up yesterday, I felt just as hopeless and devastated as I did on the morning after what happened at Pulse. So I thought I would share this with you. Obviously this deals with distressing themes and real-life events, so read with caution.After the shooting at Pulse, Helena thinks about hope.





	

* * *

 

It was a Sunday, a peaceful, quiet day in the Warehouse. Myka was reading in the library, Helena in the kitchen brewing tea. Steve was in the living room, in his customary Sunday morning slippers, pyjamas and bathrobe combo. Helena was just adding a smidge of milk to her tea when she heard Claudia shouting for them all to get into the lounge.

 

The television was on and it was displaying a sight more horrible than Helena had ever seen, which was saying a great deal, considering her lifespan and occupation. A gay nightclub in Orlando had been attacked. There were scores of victims, dead and injured. The faces of those on the news who had been present wore a thousand-yard stare that Helena had seen too many times. It spoke of horror and death and the realisation of the utter powerlessness that people feel in the face of such hatred and violence.

 

Steve was crying, his blue eyes brighter than ever, the colour amplified by the tears that were streaming down his face. Claudia had her arm around him, her hand to her mouth and angry tears streaming down her face, taking her mascara and eyeliner with it. Helena turned to check on Myka. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, her eyes full with unshed tears. Helena quickly out her arms around Myka’s waist. It was just the four of them for the weekend; Artie was visiting Vanessa, Pete visiting Amanda, and Abigail visiting her new (and as yet unnamed) boyfriend. It was fitting, somehow, that these were the members of their little family that were present to witness this.

 

The voices on the television droned on as they are wont to do, sensationalising and reporting in mock-grave voices on the increasing body count. Helena knew that this was the way of the world, that the media thrived on tragedy, that there was an instinct somewhere within us that drove us to crave the spectacle of suffering. It was that part of humanity that had been the reason for the first two strikes of the Minoan Trident on the ground at the Yellowstone caldera. That pitiful, voyeuristic, cruel and hollow part of all of us that had almost ended the world and her with it. As she felt Myka begin to sob, finally overcome by the awfulness of it all, she thought darkly as her own tears began to fall that the planet would be better off if it were to shrug off its humans, to rid itself of the parasitic infestation that we call the human race.

 

It was later - much later - when they had all recovered a little from the shock of what had happened that she began to remember why she had instead stayed her hand on that day in Yellowstone. There had been calls for blood donors in the area; the hospitals were running out, their stocks ineffective against the rivers that the gunman had shed. Steve had not said a word since Claudia's shouts; he was too upset to speak. But he looked up at them through bloodshot, tear-filled eyes.

 

"If I were there, I wouldn't be allowed to donate blood. All of these people, my brothers, my sisters, they're in trouble, they're maybe dying, and I couldn't even give them my blood."

 

It took a moment before the cruelty of it hit them all at once. This appeal for blood was a horrible irony. The blood of men who slept with other men was considered tainted and was not allowed to be donated. The cruelty of it started them off again, huddled on the couch in front of the television, their arms around each other. A little later, however, the cameras returned to show the streets of Orlando lined with donors from all walks of life. Inside the B&B, their hearts lifted even as they began to cry once again.

 

Later that night there were vigils all over the country, people like them and their allies taking to the street to express their solidarity and love. Rainbow flags were flown and those whose lives were lost or torn apart were prayed for, were remembered. Outside a B&B in South Dakota, a small group held candles and sang and cried and prayed. And Helena sat later watching the reports on the vigils, looking around the small room at her family. Claudia, her face cleansed of makeup, curled up to Steve's chest. Helena thought that Claudia might be the strongest person that Helena had ever met. She was orphaned and lost her siblings and still she carried on, still she fought, with everything she had to prove the impossible and find her brother. Steve, snoring gently, had come back from losing his real sister and had found a new sister in Claudia. Myka, her head in Helena's lap, had lost so much in her life had been so frightened to let go of control, but had learned to do exactly that, had learned to love again after terrible loss, and had brought Helena back from the brink. This, she thought, is the true meaning of Pride. To see these people stand up even though they are terribly afraid to do so, to stand up and say that they are who they are. They stand up every day and every moment is a moment of Pride, because it is a moment of being their true selves. This family, these people, they had been the reason that Helena stayed her hand. Yes, Myka in particular, because she embodied so much of what is good in the world but also that most intangible and beautiful of things. Hope. Hope for a future where people were better. Where things like this didn't happen anymore. Where pain and suffering weren't splattered all over the news. Myka's hope was, for Helena, a moment of sheer defiance. If you are truly so evil, then kill me, it said. But I still stand. I still dare to believe that you won't.

 

In the face of overwhelming odds, of powerlessness against darkness and despair, the most defiant act is to hope. To hope for more, for better. To love fiercely and without restraint, to be one's true self, unapologetic.

 

As Helena looked at the soft curls adorning her wife's head, she thought that this was a woman worthy of the Warehouse. A woman who could stop the world from ending with only the strength of her love to battle with, with only her hope to gird her loins, with only her pride to stand tall against the dark.

 

You will not be forgotten, she thought, her thought projected to the stars. You will not be forgotten. We will all stand tall, together, defiant against hatred with our hope and our love. And we will stand proud.


End file.
